


and laughter by the campfire

by misura



Category: The Lions of Al-Rassan - Guy Gavriel Kay
Genre: Multi, OT4, Surprise Pairing, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-26 03:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12547696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: The soldiers, too, were professionals, after all.





	and laughter by the campfire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maharetr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharetr/gifts).



She hit him. Admittedly, not very hard, but, Jehane told herself, it was the intent that counted in situations such as these.

Besides, she had just remembered what had occurred earlier that day.

 

He had only been joking, of course. Amusing himself a little, not specifically at the expense of her or anyone else. They had been sent to make sure a certain area was as deserted as it was generally assumed to be, the King of Ragosa being a man too cautious to rely on assumptions when he might have facts in their stead.

Jehane had not expected to be bored. Nor, in truth, had she expected her presence to be required in any professional capacity.

The mood of the men was relaxed. There would be plenty of fighting yet to come; there had been plenty of fighting in the past few months already. If during these next few weeks, nothing more would be asked of them than to ride their horses and observe the landscape, that would not be a hardship.

Which of course did not mean they were not ready for trouble, should trouble occur.

They were Rodrigo Belmonte's company, after all.

 

He grinned up at her.

She promised herself that, if he were to comment on her ability (or lack thereof) to hit a man as she should, she would permit herself to stab him. Only a little, it went without saying. Only to make it clear to him that she was not someone to trifle with.

She was not new to this. She knew perfectly well how to do a thing like that without any risk of permanent injury or infection.

Besides, by all accounts, it would hardly be the first time he had gotten himself injured at the hands of a woman.

 

Naturally enough, the topic of the conversation had drifted towards the landscape. It was not particularly unique or different from that found in other parts of the peninsula, although some of the plants and trees were ones not often found elsewhere, according to Ammar, who might be relied upon to know these things, if not, perhaps, always to be truthful when it might be more entertaining not to be.

Several men had observed trees bearing fruit.

They were not, at this time, hungry. They were simply curious. Might these fruits be eaten and, if so, how would they taste? Ought they to be peeled, first, or cooked, or dried, or otherwise prepared? If they were poisonous, what might the effects be, and who should be selected to take the first bite, to make sure? How long would the effects take to show?

Jehane might have supplied the answers to all of these questions easily enough, had she spoken up. She chose to keep quiet, knowing the discussion for what it was.

Ammar, she rather assumed, possessed much the same knowledge, and much the same reasons for not speaking up. Men liked to talk. There was no harm in letting them, at the moment.

 

He said her name and made it sound like an endearment and a plea at the same time.

She decided that she really did rather like the sound of her name when it came from him. He knew that, of course. He was clever, and not to be trusted in any way, even bound and seeminly at her mercy, and eager to please. 

If he made her name sound like a plea, it meant only that he was a skilled actor.

She supposed she might have expected as much, given that he was also a poet.

 

Jehane remembered the exact moment she had felt as if her heart had frozen in her chest.

They had passed by one of the trees, the discussion still animated and lively. Nobody appeared in any hurry to test any of their theories, which was just as well. The fruits were, indeed, unsuitable for human consumption, in any way, shape or form. Anyone who had spent some time in this region before would know this - and she was reasonably sure most of the men involved in the discussion did.

It was only a few whose ignorance was genuine, who were being goaded and teased, as soldiers did.

Thus, the last thing she had expected was for Rodrigo to guide his horse towards one of the trees, pluck one of the fruits and, after brushing off some dirt (as if that would make the least difference) take a hearty bite.

 

He was, by all accounts, a man skilled in many things. Some, she had observed for herself, while others, she had merely heard of or read about, in letters sent by her husband.

She had never before wondered if there were letters to others, in which he had written about her the way he had written about this man, the poet, and the Kindath woman, the doctor.

Being neither poet nor doctor, she might have admitted to some small measure of fear. There was more than one way in which a wife might lose her husband, and some were crueler than others.

Some, also, were impossible.

 

It had been a trick, of course. A simple enough switch to make, provided one put some distance between oneself and the observers. A child might have done the same.

"You - " said Jehane. She felt embarrassed. She had screamed. Everyone had heard her, and so everyone knew that she had been fooled.

It did not greatly matter that she had not been the only one; nobody else had screamed, so the others might now all claim to have been aware of the thing all along.

"It had occurred to me that, in order to be shown your gentler side, I might need to do myself an injury," said Rodrigo, unrepentant in the face of her anger.

"Our enemies being unequal to such a task?" asked Ammar. He seemed amused.

Jehane wanted to hit him.

"I would prefer to maintain a certain professionalism," said Rodrigo.

"And so you chose to play a prank on your company's doctor?"

Rodrigo shrugged. "Jehane's a professional, also."

Flattery, of a sort. Under other circumstances, she might have felt pleased, even if it was nothing more than the truth. Hitting him would be entirely too kind.

 

Until this very moment, she had not been certain of her ability to see this through to the end. To feel another man, practically a stranger, move under her and feel pleasure not merely at the act itself but also at the knowledge that she was being observed.

"You were warned," Miranda Belmonte told her husband, even though that was only a small part of why she was here, and doing what she had done.

She might have told him that when the person you loved more than anyone else in the world wrote you letters in which he all but confessed his love for not one but two other people, in addition to his love for you, there were only a limited amount of actions one might take - especially as a woman.

Rodrigo looked surprised, then hurt. "I never - "

He really was a fool. She hoped the woman doctor, at least, would prove sensible.

She knew better than to expect sensibility from a poet, even one who had killed kings, and fought well, and knew when to keep his mouth shut - or at least when to use it for things other than speech.

"I know that, you idiot. Do you think you'd be alive, if it were otherwise? Do you think I'd even have come?"

 

" _How_?" Rodrigo had asked, as Jehane imagined any man might, upon suddenly finding themselves faced by their wife, who was supposed to be a long way from here.

It was a question yet to be answered, although Jehane had been able to guess at some of the answer already, based on her observations of Miranda's style of clothing and her escort.

She wished, now, that she might read what Rodrigo had written about her, about Ammar, to this woman, his wife, whom he loved, and who loved him in return.

 

Rodrigo still looked stunned as they sat, the four of them, by the fire, later that night.

He might only be acting, of course, but Rodrigo had never been a poet, nor skilled at deceiving her or concealing things from her. She suspected it was one of the reasons why he had written as he had, making not the least effort to spare her the sure knowledge that she was no longer the only person in his life whom he loved beyond all reason.

It was a less humbling realization than it might have been.

He had married her, after all. For all his many faults, there was nothing wrong with Rodrigo's tastes in these matters, provided one disregarded certain rumors, now hardly ever repeated, about him and Raimundo, who might have been king.

She might have found it difficult, she thought, to share her husband's love with a king who also commanded his loyalty. This - this current thing, with an Asharite poet and king-killer and a Kindath lady doctor, this, she was capable of dealing with, of sharing in, without feeling lessened by it.

The only question remaining was what, if anything, she would tell their sons.

 

At the time of the Carnival in Ragosa, one might expect to find oneself making love to one man, or woman, while being kissed by another and observed by a third, before a place was found for them, too, to join and be made a part of the whole.

One did not expect such things in a tent in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hardened soldiers who would hear everything and, probably, say nothing about anything they had overheard the next morning, or ever.

After all, the soldiers, too, were professionals.


End file.
